When the Words are Gone
by BloodofthePen
Summary: Varric's end. (No spoilers of any kind)


He can hear the crackle of flames even as the sunset glimmers red on the horizon, blood-dipped orange reflections on each grey cloud, and he can smell the smoke. It's not like the gentle, spicy edge of the camp-fire, it's more... it's... bitter, yes-bitter and rank and it's like iron. He's a dwarf, but he's never liked the scent of metal. Varric preferred the sound of gold in his pockets and the scent of soft leather, the hard grain of wood beneath his palm.

Bianca rests on his lap now, familiar grain soft beneath his fingers, a heavy, comfortable weight. His back is stiff against some half-dead tree, and he can't be bothered to raise his head and find out what sort of half-dead tree it is. There's a hot, metal taste in his mouth even as the tainted breeze coats his nostrils. Maker... there's never been anything quite like it. Varric is alone, save for these few things, and he is not waiting for his companions' return. He knows better.

That fire signals a desperate attempt to save innocent lives, and no matter what the Inquisitor feels for him-well-he is no fool. His life is not worth a hundred who never asked for this, never raised a hand to anyone, didn't want any trouble, survived a damned Blight just to...

She won't let them die. He wouldn't ask her to risk their lives.

Varric knows.

He coughs, and tries to push her from his mind.

He cannot bear to think her name. If he thinks her name, he can see her face. He can see her clever hands, the beautiful turn of her lips, the soft sheen of her hair, her eyes as they glitter, her feet in the timeless dance of battle.

A gentle kiss.

He's... not sure, though. It's too beautiful, too perfect-he could have dreamt it. The pressure on his lips, the fingers tracing his cheek, a bow-string callous across the forefingers but her knuckles are soft. No... it may not have happened. It could be from his dreams; he's had many of her. It might be that... it would make more sense that he'd never _actually_ told her how he felt, that he'd gone on dreaming until today and... it's a last, desperate attempt to fix what he'd left undone. Not a memory, then. A dream.

Sort of poetic, actually.

A chuckle becomes a wet cough.

Damn, but he's a fool. The sounds are distant, a rustle in the branches above, the faraway crackle of a village aflame. The lingering scent might make him retch if he felt up to it.

Oh, Hawke was right. He should have come up with a clever end for himself and retired before it all came crashing down-it always did, after all. He'd done one for Hawke and Blondie... a brilliant piece of work, if he said so himself. Nice. A happy ending; if anyone deserved it... their story had too much tragedy in it to end badly. Bad storytelling, otherwise. Sure, there were people who went for that, but on the whole, it just didn't sell. Who wants a dead hero?

What good is a dead hero to anyone?

A wet cough becomes a stifled wheeze.

He has some time. He can write one more.

_Varric Tethras... would follow the Inquisitor to the ends of Thedas to save the realm. He loved her-and who wouldn't?-she was as beautiful as she was deadly and as kind as she was just. Sentiment made him soft, you see, and there was little else he could say about her, though it was clichéd, and I'm sure you've heard your heroes described as such a hundred or more times. But it was all right-he loved her, and it made his silver tongue turn to stone. _

_What was more incredible, was that she loved him. _Why_ she loved him, I don't know-you'd have to ask her. Probably the chest hair. Or maybe it was the flattering tales and songs about her, I don't know, couldn't say. _

_But it was _incredible_. _

_Near the end… of the War, she had a choice to make. There... was a village... he was injured... you can guess what happened, I think. Him or the villagers, you know. _

_And you know what? She sent the others ahead, and she stayed with him. She held his hand… kissed his head, and promised to bury him proper with his trusty crossbow at his side and she sang to him until he couldn't hear her anymore. Her voice was… low and sweet and it carried over the grasses, lifted up to the blood-drenched sky, sunset glowing on her skin, setting her hair aflame-the tree, they say, lifted at the sound, and, tainted though it was, lived beyond the battle, its leaves shone like the brightest peridot the next spring-she sang every ballad he taught her, and some he'd never heard before that sounded suspiciously like love-songs, and his tears dampened her tunic, but all was well. Her voice... was… the last thing_

Varric knows he is finished when there are no words left.


End file.
